


Aim High

by AliceAvis



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012), Tangled (2010)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Gen, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 08:01:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceAvis/pseuds/AliceAvis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack teaches Rapunzel to "aim high" in an unexpected way...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aim High

Jack finds her in the downtown apartment building. Top floor, last room at the end of the hall, barricaded behind the bathroom door. She clutches a frying pan. The sound of water dripping from the showerhead. Or is that blood dripping from the countertop?

A body on the floor. White tile smeared with red, black, and gray. She paints the bathroom with her muddy boots. But it’s unintentional.

The paintings in her room, sunbursts, flowers, and faraway towers, those were meant for humans to see. She wants people to look at her creations, lie on her bed and stare at the skylight.

Well, she “wanted” people to. In the recent past, she had never wanted anything more. But she lived alone, so no one ever laid beside her. Technically, she wasn’t alone. Her mother lived in the next bedroom. They were two separate people. Two different paintings. If she was the mural on her wall, then her mother was the mess on the bathroom floor. Because no one intentionally does this. Death had painted its self-portrait on the tile.

And her mother was the outlying border. Huddled on the threshold between the bathroom and the hallway, her mother was dead. She had dropped dead in the kitchen, a stroke. Then she had attacked her daughter. Rapunzel didn’t notice it at first. Her mother hurt her all the time. That’s why she slept in the bathtub some nights, wrapping the shower curtain around her trembling body. That’s why she painted pictures of a magical place. The tower on her wall was her freedom, but it was also her prison.  
Even in her fantasy world, she wasn’t free.

So when her dead mother lunged at her neck, she almost didn’t think twice. Then she noticed the glassy eyes and the smell of rancid meat. How odd, her mother was dead a few days before Rapunzel ever noticed. She had probably been too busy in her room, her hands stained with paint. It came fast, the realization. As reality hit her in the gut, she ran to the kitchen. Stumbling over fallen silverware, broken plates and chipped cups. The world titled as a hand grabbed her ankle. Mother never went for her ankles…she usually grabbed Rapunzel by the wrists and slammed her against the mirrored wall.

The mirrored walls were all shattered. The floor would have to do. She fell against the countertop. Sharp edges cut her forehead open. Blood splattered.  
Sides of her vision broke into a dozen pieces. All colorful, like the paint on her walls. Circles of darkness grew out from the center of it all.

Darkness. Redness. Numbness as familiar fingernails dug into her skin.

Right into the round ankle bone.

Rapunzel reached for the glint of metal in the distance. Distance, only a few feet in front of her. But in the tunnel of red and black, it felt so much farther. She grabbed it, whatever it was and swung it at her mother’s head. A crack. A groan. She swung again and again and again and—

Silence.

The cracking of a skull faded into silence. Like crushing flowers beneath heavy boots. It was easy. And the blood that covered her body was sweet nectar on her skin. Rapunzel looked up, wiping her eyes and breathing hard. She was in the bathroom. What? She must have run there in a daze, hitting the walls and her mother’s head simultaneously. But it didn’t matter how she got there. She was there now, in her sanctuary, her escape. She leaned against the bathtub. Her mother was lying in front of her. Half on white tile, half on laminate flooring. Dead. Or maybe alive? Dead and alive at the same time. Was it possible?

Rapunzel rolled her eyes. Just as possible as her ever being free. She rolled her eyes over and over again. Trying to establish indifference was like trying to stop her heart. Stop the clock. Stop the world. She couldn’t be indifferent. Not towards a stranger on the street, a lizard beneath the fridge, or even the monster that lived in the next bedroom. Because she cared too much. Rapunzel cared about a world she never saw. She pressed her cheek against her painted tower and closed her eyes, dreaming of the outside. If she had known what the outside was like, would she still have dreamed?

She didn’t really know.

She doesn’t really know. Because now she is getting her first glimpse of what’s out there. And if this boy is a representation of the world, it might not be that scary. Brown hair is stuck to his forehead. His skin shines with sweat. Beneath flickering lights, he is unknown to her. His name is Jack, but she wouldn’t know that. He’s filled with so many colors. The lithe body is a canvas. Eyes rimmed with sleepless black. Cheeks smeared with slapped-face red. Tattered blue jacket, frayed brown pants. And his eyes. The color of burnt honey on the frying pan. Before her dead mother tried to kill her, Rapunzel would fry peanut butter and honey sandwiches on the stove. Drops of honey would fall onto the metal.

Sizzling, hardening, fading.

A hive in the oven would be interesting. Listening to the buzzing and the blistering and the crunching…

Crunching of exoskeletons, crunching of her mother’s skull.

“You okay?” His voice drags her away from her thoughts. Her mental canvas is torn to shreds. He is just a boy now, a scarred and bloodied boy carrying a sniper rifle.

“I…yeah, I guess I am.”

He examines the bathroom, leaning back and forth on his heels. “That’s an interesting choice of weapon you’ve got there.” He gestures to the frying pan. “You can kill a walker to two, then fry up some eggs.”

A hollow laugh. Kind of cold, kind of icy. Like the water that often pours out of the showerhead. Rapunzel remembers standing in the bathtub, her hand on the faucet. She shivers in the freezing rain and wishes that she was allowed to use the hot water. But her mother would know. She has to hurry, she only has five minutes left…

“Hello?” The boy is kneeling in front of her. He waves his hand back and forth. Trying to say hi? Trying to drag her out of her fantasy? Rapunzel doesn’t know. Rapunzel doesn’t…Oh wait, she always cares. Creating indifference is impossible for her.

She rubs her eyes and takes a deep breath. Her limp hand waves back. “Hi…I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was holding it…I just…” She starts twirling her hair. The frying pan falls from her hand. It strikes the tile and falls against the toilet. Rapunzel flinches at the sound. Tears well and now she’s crying. She doesn’t want to cry in front of this stranger. But the tears come anyways. Hot and heavy, they roll down her cheeks. They yank her to the floor. Fingers curl against the bloody tile. She feels the frying pan. Where she used to cook sandwiches and watch the honey burn. It’s covered in a different kind of honey now. Red and sticky.

“Hey, it’s all right. You’re safe now.” The boy pulls her up and into his chest.

It’s a swift action. An unnatural one in Rapunzel’s mind. Human touch makes her nervous. Her mother’s sharp nails, the only form of contact she has ever known. And now this boy is hugging her and telling her that everything will be okay. She feels the fabric of his sweatshirt. Soft, dotted with bits of dried blood. The drawstrings are frayed. Sometimes, he gives his jacket to his friend, Hiccup. It grows cold at night and Jack is better suited for the chill. So he pulls it over his head and throws it to his friend. Hiccup will sit in the darkness, beneath the thousands of stars. He’ll draw blueprints for new guns and ways to store food while he keeps watch. And he’ll chew on the drawstrings while he thinks.

Of course, Rapunzel wouldn’t know this. She just twirls the bitten drawstrings like she twirls her hair.

She accepts his hug and buries her face in the bloodstained sweatshirt.

A few minutes of silence. Water drips, the A/C hums, lizards scurry under the refrigerator.

Rapunzel raises her head. “You called them ‘walkers’ before. What did you mean?”

“That’s just our name for them. These…things, or whatever they are.”

“She was my mother.”

Jack looks at the dead body lying on the threshold. Half on tile, half on laminate. Dead, alive, undead, what is it, really? Her words prick him. Icicles in his vertebrae. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Rapunzel quickly wipes her tears. “So what are they? And you said ‘our’ before, do you live with a lot of people?”

“Full of questions, aren’t we?” He sits back, blocking her view of the dead walker. “Let’s start with something simple. My name’s Jack, what’s yours?”

“Rapunzel.”

“Pretty name. Kinda fancy, but nice. To answer your question, I live with lots of people. We’re holed up in the supermarket not too far from here.”

“You guys are hiding from something.” Rapunzel states this like it’s a fact. She pulls her knees up to her chin. “So the whole world must be full of these walkers. At least, the city must be.”

“Yeah, the city’s overrun with them. But it’s nothing we can’t handle. “ He grins and pats his sniper. “Oh, and what you said before. I can’t tell you what they are. No one knows. The dead are walking around, that’s all the info I’ve got.”

“I can’t believe it…”

“Took me a while to get used to it, too.”

She shakes her head. “No, I mean I can’t believe you know how to use that thing! It looks so—”

“Awesome?”

“I was gonna say horrifying, but that works.” A faint smile, a twirl of her golden hair. Right now, in this moment, everything is perfect. Just talking to another person, another human being that doesn’t want to hurt her or tear her down. Even if they’re in the middle of a bathroom, the dead walking outside the window, she can still smile. Because this is new to her. Talking to another human is nice, zombie apocalypse or not.

Jack is talking about all of his “misadventures”. The time he raided a pharmacy with his friend, Hiccup, and both of them almost got eaten. The time he was playing target practice with a walker’s severed head and splattered brains all over Hiccup. The time he did this, the time he did that. He’s done so much while Rapunzel was busy painting and hiding in the bathtub. His life sounds so exciting to her.

“It’s like a game. I just aim, like this.” He lies on the floor and adjusts the rifle. “And when I’ve got them in my crosshairs, I fire.”

He’s got her in his crosshairs. The gun is unloaded, of course. The ammo is in his back pocket. “Hey, Punzie. I see you!”

She laughs. “Punzie? I guess that’s ok. Guess what? I see you, too.”

Much to Jack’s surprise, she has crawled closer to the sniper. She looks down the barrel with one eye shut. Wow, she’s so…trusting.

They continue to mess around with the gun. Jack shows her what the ammunition looks like and gives her a piece of advice. “Aim high. If you aim for the head and miss, at least you’ll land among the limbs.”

They’ve been having so much fun, neither of them noticed the scratching at the front door. It’s been getting louder and louder. And now it has peaked. Wood splinters and the door opens. Moaning is heard from the kitchen. Feet are dragged across the floor.

“Dammit.” Jack wishes he had been paying attention.

There really isn’t much time. The walkers are slow, but once they’ve got something, they never let go. He listens hard. There are two, maybe three of them wandering through the apartment. The fresh blood will draw them close. Moans turn to growls and then it’s there, in the hallway. Jack’s ammo is in his back pocket. The gun isn’t loaded…crap. It’s a swift action. An unnatural one in Rapunzel’s mind. She sees the monster in the hall and her hand goes for the frying pan. Before she can think, her hand has thrown it.

It spirals through the air and hits the walker in the head, where the brain has been exposed and the skull is chipped away. She’s never thrown a frying pan before. Sure, she had the urge to chuck one at her mother plenty of times, but she never did. Now she’s done it, and it was a perfect shot. The walker falls to the floor. Pink stuff is splattered on the wall. A new kind of paint.

Jack is staring at her, his mouth wide.

Rapunzel shrugs. “I aimed high.”

“You sure did…”

She gets off the floor and ties her hair back with the ribbon she always keeps in her pocket. The ribbon she found on her windowsill one day. Sitting inside with the window open, the breeze had carried a purple ribbon to her. It was tangled on the withered plants.

Standing in the bathroom, she ties it around her ponytail. “Come on, Jack. I hear more of those guys in the kitchen. Just let me grab my frying pan and we can get them together.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Grinning, he takes the ammo out of his back pocket. “I’ve got a feeling Merida is gonna like you.”

“Merida?”

“She’s another one of my friends. I’ll introduce you when we get back to the supermarket.” The rifle clicks. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

They stand for a moment, arm against arm, poised to fight. Then they sneak into the hallway on tiptoe. Jack has his sniper rifle, Rapunzel grabs her frying pan from the walker’s cracked head.

Jack whispers as he readies his gun. “This will probably alert the rest of them that we’re here. Get ready to make a run for it.”

Rapunzel nods and touches his shoulder. This is new, initiating human contact. Her lips are next to his ear.

“Aim high, Jack.”

He smiles, those burnt honey eyes alive with fire. “You said it, Punzie. Aim high.”


End file.
